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            The Two-Centimeter Demon
                                                               by Issac Asimov
   I met George at a literrary convention a good many years ago,
and was struck by the peculiar look of innocence and candor
upon his round middle-aged face. He was the kind of person, I
decided at once, to whom you would give your wallet to hold
while you went swimming.
   He recognized me from my photographs on the back of my
books and greeted me gladly, telling me how much he liked my
stories and novels which, of course, gave me a good opinion of
his intelligence and taste.
   We shook hands cordially and he said, "My name is George
Bitternut."
   "Bitternut," I repeated, in order to fix it in my mind. "An
unusual name."
   "Danish," he said, "and very aristocratic. I am descended
from Cnut, better known as Canute, a Danish king who conquered
England in the early eleventh century. An ancestor of mine
was his son, born on the wrong side of the blanket, of course."
   "Of course," I muttered, though I didn't see why that was
something that should be taken for granted.
   "He was named Cnut for his father," George went on,"and
when he was presented to the king, the royal Dane said, 'By my
halidom, is this my heir?'"
   "'Not quite,' siad the courtier who was dandling little Cnut,
'for he is illegitimate, the mother being the launderwoman
whom you--'
   "'Ah,' said the king, 'That's better.' And Bettercnut he was
known from that moment on. Just that single name. I have in-
herited that name in the direct male line except that the vicissi-
tudes of time have changed the name to Bitternut." And his blue
eyes looked at me with a kind of hypnotic ingenuousness that
forbade doubt.
   I said, "Would you join me for lunch?" sweeping my hand in
the direction of the ornate restaurant that was clearly intended
only for the fat-walleted.
   George said,"Don't you think that that bistro is a bit garish
and that the lunch counter on the other side might--"
   "As my guest," I added.
   And George pursed his lips and said,"Now that I look at the
bistro in a better light, I see that it has a rather homelike atmo-
sphere. Yes, it will do."
   Over the main course, George said,"My ancestor Bettercnut
had a son, whom he named Sweyn. A good Dnish name."
   "Yes, I know,"     I said,"King Cnut's father's name was Sweyn
Forkbeard.In modern times, the name is usually spelled Sven."
   George frowned slightly sand said,"There is no need, old man,
to parade your knowledge of these things. I accept the fact that
you have the rudiments of an education."
   I felt abashed."Sorry."
   He waved his hand in grand forgiveness, ordered another
glass of wine and said,"Sweyn Bettercnut was fascinated by the
young women, a characteristic all the Bitternuts have inherited,
and he was very successful with them, I might add--as we have
all been. There is a well-attested tale that many a woman after
leaving him would shake her head admiringly and say, 'Oh,
what a Sweyn that is.' He was an archimage, too." He paused,
and said abruptly,"Do you know wht an archimage is?"
   "No," I lied, not wishing to parade my knowledge offensively
yet again."Tell me."
   "An archimage is a master magician," said George, with what
certainly sounded like a sigh of relief."Sweyn studied the arcane
and hidden arts. It was possible to do it then, for all that nasty
modern skepticism had not yet arisen. He was intent on finding
ways of persuading the young ladies to behave with that kind of
gentle and compliant behavior that is the crown of womanhood
and to eschew all that was froward and shrewish."
   "Ah," I said, sympathetically.
   "For this he needed demons, and he perfected means for call-
ing them up by burning certain sweet shrubs and calling on
certain half-forgotten names of power."
   "And did it work, Mr. Bitternut?"
   "Please call me George. Of course it worked. He had demons
in teams and shoals working for him for, as he often complained,
the women of the time were mule-headed and obstinate who
countered his claim to be the grandson of a king, with unkind
remarks about the nature of the descent. Once a demon did his
thing, however, they could see that a natural son was only natu-
ral."
   I said,"Are you sure this is so, George?"
   "Certainly, for last summer I found his book of recipes for
calling up demons. I found it in an old English castle that is in
ruins now but that once belonged to my family. The exact shrubs
were listed, the manner of burning, the pacing, the names of
power, the intonations. Everything. It was written in Old En-
glish--Anglo-Saxon, you know--but I am by way of being a
linguist and ---"
   A certain mild skepticism made itself felt."You're joking," I
said.
   His glance was haughty. "Why do you think so? Am I tit-
tering? It was an authentic book. I tested the recipes myself."
   "And got a demon."
   "Yes, indeed," he said, pointing significantly to the breast
pocket of his suit coat.
   "In there?"
   George touched the pocket and seemed on the point of nod-
ding, when his fingers seemed to feel something significant, or
perhaps failed to feel something. He peered inside.
   "He's gone," he said with dissatisfaction. "Dematerialized.
--But you can't blame him, perhaps. He was with me last night
because he was curious about this convention, you know. I gave
him some whiskey out of an eyedropper and he liked it. Perhaps
he liked it a little too much, for he wanted to fight the caged
cockatoo in the bar and began squeaking opprobrious names at
it. Fortunately he fell asleep before the offended bird could retal-
iate. This morning he did not seem at his best and I suppose he
has gone home, wherever that might be, to recover."
   I felt a touch rebellious. Did he expect me to believe all this?
"Are you telling me you had a demon in your breast pocket?"
   "Your quick grasp of the situation," said George,"is gratify-
ing."
   "How big was he?"
   "Two centimeters."
   "But that's less than an inch."
   "Perfectly correct. An inch is 2.54 centimeters."
   "I mean, what kind of a demon is two centimeters tall?"
   "A small one," said George, "but as the old saying goes, a
small demon is better than no demon."
   "It depends on his mood."
   "Oh, Azazel--that's his name--is a friendly demon. I suspect
he is looked down upon his native haunts, for he is extraordi-
narily anxious to impress me with his powers, except that he
won't use them to make me rich, as he should out of decent
friendship. He says his powers must be used only to do good to
others."
   "Come, come, George. Surely that's not the philosophy of
hell."
   George put a finger to his lips. "Don't say things like that, old
man. Azazel would be enormously offended. He says that his
country is kindly, decent, and highly civilized, and he speaks
with enormous respect of his ruler whom he won't name but
whom he calls merely the All-in-All."
   "And does he indeed do kindnesses?"
   "Whenever he can. Take the case of my goddaughter, Juniper
Pen--"
   "Juniper Pen?"
   "Yes. I can see by the look of intense curiosity in your eye that
you wish to know the story and I will gladly tell it to you."

   Juniper Pen [said George] was a wide-eyed sophomore at col-
lege when the tale I tell you opened--an innocent, sweet girl
fascinated by the basketball team, one and all of whom were tall,
handsome young men.
   The one of the team upon whom her girlish fancies seemed
most fixed was Leander Thomson, tall, rangy, with large hands
that wrapped themselves about a basketball, or anything else
that was the size and shape of a basketball, which somehow
brings Juniper in mind. He was the undoubted focus of her
screaming when she sat in the audience at one of the games.
   She would speak to me of her sweet little dreams, for like all
young women, even those who were not my goddaughters, she
had the impulse to confide in me. My warm but dignified de-
meanor invited confidence.
   "Oh, Uncle George," she would say,"surely it isn't wrong of
me to dream of a future with Leander. I see him now as the
greatest basketball player in the world, as the pick and cream of
the great professionals, as the owner of a long-term, large-sized
contract. It's not as if I ask for much. All I want out of life is a
little vine-covered mansion, a small garden stretching out as far
as the eye can see, a simple staff of servants organized into
squads, all my clothing arranged alphabetically for each day of
the week, and each month of the year, and--"
   I was forced to interrupt her charming prattle. "Little one," I
said,"there is a tiny flaw in your scheme. Leander is not a very
good basketball player and it is unlikely that he will be signed up
for enormous sums in the salary."
   "That's so unfair," she said, pouting. "Why isn't he a very good
basketball player?"
   "Because that is the way the universe works. Why do you not
pin your young affections on someone who is a good basketball
player? Or, for that matter, on some honest young Wall Street
broker who happens to have access to inside information?"
   "Actually, I've thought of that myself, Uncle George, but I
like Leander all by himself. There are times when I think of him
and say to myself, Is money really all that important?"
   "Hush, little one," I said, shocked. Women these days are
incredibly outspoken.
   "But why can't I have the money too? Is that so much to
ask?"
   Actually, was it? After all, I had a demon all my own. It was a
little demon, to be sure, but his heart was big. Surely he would
want to help out the course of true love, in order to bring sweet-
ness and light to two souls whose two hearts beat as one at the
thought of mutual kisses and mutual funds.
   Azazel did listen when I summoned him with the appropriate
name of power.--No, I can't tell you what it is. Have you no
sense of elementary ethics? -- As I say, he did listen but with
what I felt to be a lack of that true sympathy one would expect. I
admit I had dragged him into our own continuum from what
was an indulgence in something like a Turkish bath, for he was
wrapped in a tiny towel and he was shivering. His voice seemed
higher and squeakier than ever. (Actually, I don't think it was
truly his voice. I think he communicated by telepathy of some
sort, but the result was that I heard, or imagined I heard, a
squeaky voice.)
   "What is basket ball?" he said. "A ball shaped like a basket?
Because if it is, what is a basket?"
   I tried to explain but, for a demon, he can be very dense. He
kept staring at me as though I were not explaining every bit of
the game with luminous clarity.
   He said, finally, "Is it possible for me to see a game of basket-
ball?"
   "Certainly," I said. "There will be a game tonight. I have a
ticket which Leander gave me and you can come in my pocket."
   "Fine," said Azazel. "Call me back when you are ready to
leave for the game. Right now, I must finish my zymjig," by
which I suppose he meant his Turkish bath--and he disap-
peared.
   I must admit that I find it most irritating to have someone
place his puny and parochial affairs ahead of the matters of great
moment in which I am engaged--which reminds me, old man,
that the waiter seems to be trying to attract your attention. I
think he has your check for you. Please take it from him and let
me get ahead with my story.
   I went to the basketball game that night and Azazel was with
me in my pocket. He kept poking his head above the edge of the
pockt in order to watch the game and he would have made a
questionable sight if anyone had been watching. His skin is a
bright red and on his forehead are two nubbins of horns. It is
fortunate, of course, that he didn't come out altogether, for his
centimeter-long, muscular tail is both his most prominent and
his most nauseating feature.
   I am not a great basketball aficionado myself and I rather left
it to Azazel to make sense out of what was happening. His intel-
ligence, although dmonic rather than human, is intense.
   After the game he said to me,"It seems to me, as nearly as I
could make out from the strenuous action of the bulky, clumsy
and totally uninteresting individuals in the arena, that there was
excitement every time that peculiar ball passed through a hoop."
   "That's it," I said. "You score a basket, you see."
   "Then this protege of yours would become a heroic player of
this stupid game if he could throw the ball through the hoop
every time?"
   "Exactly."
   Azazel twirled his tail thoughtfully. "That should not be diffi-
cult. I need only adjust his reflexes in order to make him judge
the angle, height, force--" He fell into a ruminative silence for a
moment, then said,"Let's see, I noted and recorded his personal
coordinate complex during the game. . . Yes, it can be done.
--In fact, it is done. Your Leander will have no trouble in get-
ting the ball through the hoop."
   I felt a certain excitement as I waited for the next scheduled
game. I did not say a word to little Juniper because I had never
made use of Azazel's demonic powers before and I wasn't en-
tirely sure that his deeds would match his words. Besides, I
wanted her to be surprised. (As it turned out, she was very
surprised, as was I.)
   The day of the game came at last, and it was the game. Our
local college, Nerdsville Tech, of whose basketball team Leander
was so dim a luminary, was playing the lanky bruisers of the A1
Capone College Reformatory and it was expected to be an epic
combat.
   How epic, no one expected. The Capone Five swept into an
early lead, and I watched Leander keenly. He seemed to have
trouble in deciding what to do and at first his hands seemed to
miss the ball when he tried to dribble. His reflexes, I guessed,
had been so altered that at first he could not control his muscles
at all.
   But then it was as though he grew accustomed to hsi new
body. He seized the ball and it seemed to slip from his hands--
but what a slip! It arced high into the air and through the center
of the hoop.
   A wild cheer shook the stands while Leander stared thought-
fully up at the hoop as though wondering what had happened.
   Whatever had happened, happened again--and again. As
soon as Leander touched the ball, it arced. As soon as it arced it
curved into the basket. It would happen so suddenly that no one
ever saw Leander aim, or make any effort at all. Interpreting this
as sheer expertise, the crowd grew the more hysterical.
   But then, of course, the inevitable happened and the game
descended into total chaos. Catcalls erupted fromt the stands; the
scarred and broken-nosed alumni who were rooting for Capone
Reformatory made violent remarks of a derogatory nature and
fistfights blossomed in every corner of the audience.
   What I had failed to tell Azazel, you see, thinking it to be self-
evident, and waht Azazel had failed to realize was that the two
baskets on the court were not identical; that one was the home
basket and the other the visitors' basket, and that each player
aimed for the appropriate basket. The basketball, with all the
lamentable ignorance of an inanimate object, arced for which-
ever basket was nearer once Leander seized it. The result was
that time and again Leander would manage to put the ball into
the wrong basket.
   He persisted in doing so despiet the kindly remonstrances of
Nerdsville coach, Claws ("Pop") McFang, which he shrieked
through the foam that covered his lips. Pop McFang bared his
teech in a sigh of sadness at having to eject Leander from the
game, and wept openly when they removed his fingers from Le-
ander's throat so that the ejection could be carried through.
   My friend, Leander was never the same again. I had thought,
naturally, that he would find escape in drink, and become a stern
and thoughtful wino. I would have understood that. He sank
lower than that, however. He turned to his studies.
   Under the contemptuous, and even sometimes pitying, eyes of
his schoolmates, he slunk from lecture to lecture, buried his
head in books, and receded into the dank depths of scholarship.
   Yet through it all, Juniper clunk to him. "He needs me," she
said, her eyes misting with unshed tears. Sacrificing all, she mar-
ried him after they graduated. She then clunk to him even while
he sank to the lowest depth of all, being stigmatized with a
Ph.D. in physics.
   He and Juniper live now in a small co-op on the upper west
side somewhere. He teaches physics and does research in cos-
mogony, I understand. He earns $60,000 a year and is spoken of
in shocked whispers, by those who knew him when he was a
respectable jock, as a possible candidate for the Nobel Prize.
   Juniper never complains, but remains faithful to her fallen
idol. Neither by word nor deed does she ever express any sense
of loss, but she cannot fool her old godfather. I know very well
that, on occasion, she thinks wistfully of the vine-covered man-
sion she'll never have, and of the rolling hills and distant hori-
zons of her small dream estate.

   "That's the story," said George, as he scooped up the change
the waiter had brought, and copied down the total from the
credit-card receipt (so that he might take it off as a tax-deduc-
tion, I assume). "If I were you," he added. "I would leave a
generous tip."
   I did so, rather in a daze, as George smiled and walked away.
I didn't really mind the loss of the change. It occurred to me
that George got only a meal, whereas I had a story I could tell as
my own and which would earn me many times the cost of the
meal.
   In fact, I decided to continue having dinner with him now and
then.